french and english poete AND writter, who will randomly post.
Fandom i propably will write about (thank the brain that never stop) :
Marvel, Harry Potter, DC
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Summary: you and nat officially start your dream life
Warnings: nat has babyfever
W.C: 5k
A.N: Enjoy <3
The compound is unusually loud when you get home.
Not the chaotic, battle-debrief loud. Not Tony blasting music loud. It’s…anticipatory. Like something is about to happen, and everyone knows it except you.
You don’t have the energy to question it.
Your day has wrung you dry—every meeting dragging, every small thing going wrong in that slow, relentless way that makes it worse than a single disaster.
By the time you step through the door, your shoulders ache, your eyes burn, and there’s a tightness in your chest you’ve been ignoring for hours.
You barely register the way a few heads snap toward you. The way conversations cut off mid-sentence.
“…she’s home,” Thor whispers.
You frown, confused, but your brain feels like it’s moving through syrup.
You don’t ask. You just keep walking.
The smell hits you first.
Warm. Comforting. Familiar.
Food.
You follow it like a lifeline, down the hall and into the kitchen—and there she is.
Natasha stands at the stove, sleeves pushed up, hair pulled back just enough to keep it out of her face.
She’s stirring something in a pan, her movements precise but… off.
A little too careful.
A little too tense.
You don’t notice that part right away.
All you see is her.
Something in you finally gives.
You cross the room without a word. She starts to turn, probably to greet you, but you don’t let her get that far.
Your hands find her arms, gently but insistently, and you turn her fully toward you.
“Hey—”
You pull her into you before she can finish.
Your arms wrap around her, tight, almost desperate, your face pressing into the crook of her neck.
She stiffens in surprise for half a second—and then immediately melts, hands coming up to hold you just as firmly.
“Hey… hey,” she murmurs, softer now, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. “What happened?”
You shake your head against her shoulder. You don’t trust your voice. If you try to explain, you’re pretty sure it’ll all spill out in a way you can’t control.
So you don’t.
You just hold on.
And then, quietly, without warning, your body betrays you.
Your breathing stutters.
Your grip tightens.
And the tears you’ve been holding back all day finally slip free. Silent at first, just a tremble against her.
Natasha notices immediately.
She always does.
“Oh,” she breathes, and something in her voice shifts, something fiercely protective and achingly gentle all at once.
She turns slightly, guiding you so you’re more comfortable against her, one arm firm around your back while the other strokes slow, steady lines through your hair.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
You nod, fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.
Her jaw tightens.
Because she knows.
She knows exactly what’s sitting in her pocket right now. Knows what she had planned. Knows that, hours ago, everything was supposed to go differently.
Candles.
A calmer atmosphere.
You smiling, not…this.
And earlier—
“—Oh my god, you’re proposing to y/n?!” Wanda’s voice had rung through the common room, loud and unmistakable.
Natasha had frozen.
Clint had choked on his drink. Steve had blinked like he’d just been hit with a flashbang. Tony had immediately started asking questions at maximum volume.
“You’re proposing? Romanoff? With feelings? This I have to see—”
Natasha had very seriously considered disappearing.
Instead, she’d just pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered, “You were not supposed to say that out loud.”
Wanda, to her credit, had looked genuinely apologetic.
“…I forgot we weren’t alone.”
So now everyone knows.
Everyone is waiting.
And Natasha—
Natasha is standing in the kitchen, holding you while you quietly fall apart after a terrible day, with a ring in her pocket and a plan that no longer fits.
Her hand stills in your hair for just a second.
Then she exhales, slow and steady.
Plans can change.
You come first.
Always.
“Hey,” she says softly after a while, just loud enough for you to hear. “Look at me for a second?”
You hesitate, then pull back just enough.
Your eyes are a little red, your expression worn and fragile in a way that makes something twist painfully in her chest.
Her thumb brushes gently under your eye, catching the last trace of a tear.
“Rough day?” she asks.
You let out a weak huff of a laugh. “That obvious?”
“A little.”
You nod, glancing down. “I’m okay. I just… needed a minute.”
“You don’t have to be okay right now,” she says quietly.
You look back up at her.
There’s something different in her expression.
Still soft. Still steady.
But beneath?
Nervousness.
Real, unguarded nervousness.
You blink, confused. “Nat?”
She inhales.
And for someone who has faced down gods, assassins, and the end of the world more than once…this might be the most uncertain you’ve ever seen her.
“Yeah,” she says, her voice low. “Hi.”
You almost smile. “Hi.”
Her lips twitch like she’s trying to mirror it, but there’s too much else going on.
Behind you, there’s another barely-contained whisper.
“…is she doing it now?!”
“Shut up—”
Natasha ignores them.
Her focus is entirely on you.
“I had a plan,” she admits, almost under her breath. “It was…better than this. Less—” she gestures vaguely “—you crying in the kitchen.”
You let out a soft, embarrassed groan. “I can stop crying—”
“Don’t,” she interrupts gently. “That’s not the point.”
Her hand finds yours.
You feel it then, something shifting.
Your exhaustion doesn’t disappear, but it makes space for something else.
Curiosity.
A flicker of anticipation.
“Natasha…?”
She swallows.
And then, because she’s never done anything halfway in her life, she lets herself be completely honest.
“You had a terrible day,” she says. “And you came home, and the first thing you did was find me.”
Your fingers tighten around hers.
“You didn’t say anything,” she continues softly. “You just…trusted me to be there.”
“I always do,” you whisper.
That almost undoes her.
You see it—just for a second.
Then she steadies herself.
“Good,” she says. “Because I need you to trust me for one more thing.”
Your heart starts to pick up, just a little.
She lets go of one of your hands.
For a split second, you think maybe she’s pulling away.
Instead, she reaches into her pocket.
And then, before your brain fully catches up, she’s stepping back and lowering herself onto one knee.
Your breath catches.
Somewhere in the hallway, there’s a very audible thud followed by a muffled, “oh my god—”
Neither of you looks.
Natasha doesn’t break eye contact.
She opens the small box in her hand, revealing the ring—simple, beautiful, unmistakably you.
“I had a whole speech,” she says, a little breathless now. “It was structured. Thought out. Probably less…rambling.”
You stare at her, heart pounding.
“But this is what I’ve got,” she continues, a faint, nervous smile breaking through. “You. Right here. Exactly as you are.”
Your eyes sting again—but for a very different reason.
“I don’t need perfect timing,” she says. “I just need you.”
She takes a breath, steadying herself, like this is somehow harder than anything she’s ever faced.
“So, will you—”
“Yes.”
It slips out of you, immediate and certain.
Natasha closes her eyes for half a second.
“…I’m going to ask the full question,” she says.
“I know, I just—yes.”
“You’re going to let me finish.”
“I am, I promise.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
Natasha exhales, fighting a smile. Then she looks back at you, really focusing.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “Stay with me.”
“I’m here.”
“I know.’’
She tightens her hold on your hands just slightly.
“Will you—”
You inhale sharply.
She gives you a look.
You clamp your mouth shut so fast it’s almost impressive.
Her lips twitch.
“Good,” she says softly.
And then, slower this time—
“Will you marry me?”
There it is.
Clear. Simple. Real.
You don’t interrupt.
You just stare at her, eyes already stinging again, your grip tightening around her hands.
“Yeah,” you whisper, then add to really confirm it: "Yeah, I will. Of course I will.”
Relief floods her face, immediate and overwhelming, like she didn’t realize how much she needed to hear it said all the way through.
“Yeah?” she asks, just to be sure.
You nod quickly. “Yeah.”
You grin, a little teary, a little breathless.
“I said yes three times, by the way.”
“I noticed.”
“I was very enthusiastic.”
“You were very interruptive.”
“Same thing.”
That finally breaks her—she lets out a soft laugh as she slides the ring onto your finger, her hands just a little unsteady now for an entirely different reason.
“Still counts,” she murmurs.
“Every single one counted,” you say.
You don’t wait; you pull her up into yourself, arms wrapping tight around her, your face pressing into her shoulder again, but this time you’re laughing.
Behind you, the hallway erupts.
“FINALLY!”
“Took long enough!”
“I had money on four interruptions!”
Natasha just holds you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head again, grounding, warm, yours.
“You didn’t let me finish the first time,” she murmurs into your hair.
You tilt your head up, smiling. “You got there eventually.”
She brushes her thumb under your eye, soft and steady.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I did.”
You lean in and kiss her gently.
Like sealing something that was already decided long before tonight.
-///-
You’re half sprawled across the bed, tucked into Natasha’s side, a laptop resting against your legs as the night crawls closer.
The glow from the screen paints both of you in soft light as you scroll through listings, one after another.
Most of them blur together.
Too modern. Too far. Too…not right.
Natasha’s arm is draped loosely around you, her fingers absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy patterns along your stomach—barely there, but constant.
Grounding.
You hum quietly, squinting at another house.
“Mm…how many bedrooms do you think we should look for?” you murmur, your voice already a little sleepy.
There’s a pause.
Then, without hesitation, the words leave her as if she had thought about it for more than a minute.
“At least five.”
You blink.
Turn your head to look up at her.
“…Five?” you repeat.
She doesn’t even look away from the screen. “Minimum.”
You prop yourself up slightly on your elbow, narrowing your eyes at her. “How many times are you expecting me to get pregnant, exactly?”
That gets her attention.
Slowly, Natasha turns her head toward you.
There’s a smirk there. Subtle, but definitely there.
You stare at her.
“Natasha.”
She leans in just slightly, her lips brushing your neck.
It’s soft and teasing, just enough to make your breath hitch.
“Relax,” she murmurs against your skin, her voice warm and amused. “I’m planning ahead.”
You huff, but it dissolves into a quiet laugh, your hand coming up to rest lightly against her arm.
“Natasha and babies, who would have thought?" You smile at her, pecking her lips, then, quieter, ‘’You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” she says, pressing one last soft kiss there before pulling back, “you said yes.”
“Multiple times.”
“Very enthusiastically.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you settle back down against her.
“Five bedrooms,” you mutter. “You’re so ambitious.”
“I’m just practical.”
“You’re quite optimistic.”
“That too.”
You glance back down at the screen, scrolling again.
And then you pause.
“…Wait.”
Natasha’s hand stills for just a second at your stomach.
“What?”
You tilt the screen slightly so she can see better.
A white house.
Simple, but warm. Big windows. A wraparound porch that looks like it was made for slow mornings and late evenings.
And just beyond it…
Water.
A lake, stretching quietly and calmly behind it.
“It’s not exactly close to the tower,” you say softly, almost like you’re thinking out loud. “But it’s not that far either…”
“Far enough,” she murmurs.
“Close enough,” you add.
She studies it for a moment, her thumb resuming its slow, absent patterns against you.
Then she nods once.
“It’s pretty.”
That’s all it takes.
You light up a little, shifting so you’re more comfortable as you start clicking through the photos.
“Okay, okay, wait,” you say, suddenly more awake. “This one—this kitchen, we need a kitchen island.”
“Obviously.”
“And that—” you swipe. “—that could be a second living room. Or like…a playroom?”
“A playroom?”
“Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not,” she says, though there’s amusement in her voice.
You keep going, pointing at different parts of the layout, dreaming about a future with her.
“Okay, so this would be our room,” you decide, clicking on one of the larger bedrooms. “Because it has the windows facing the lake.”
“Agreed.”
“And then—” you swipe again, already thinking ahead. “—this one would be for our first kid.”
Natasha’s hand pauses again.
Not tense.
Just…noticing.
You don’t.
You’re already moving on.
“And then this one could be the second kid's room.”
She hums, watching your face now instead of the screen.
"And this one could be like a quest room… or a possible third kid. Depending.’’
“Efficient,” she murmurs, nuzzling her nose to your cheek.
“I learned from the best.”
“And the fifth?”
You hesitate for a second.
Then shrug, softer now.
“…Something the future will bring.”
She doesn’t answer right away.
Her hand shifts, flattening more fully against your stomach, her thumb tracing slower now, more deliberate.
Grounding.
Thinking.
You glance up at her. “Too much?”
Her gaze meets yours.
There’s something warm there. Something steady.
“No,” she says quietly. “Not enough.”
Your expression softens immediately.
“Five bedrooms,” you murmur again with a smile, turning back to the screen.
This time, you lean into her a little more, your hand finding hers where it rests against you.
She laces your fingers together without even looking.
The house stays on the screen.
The porch.
The lake.
The space.
And for a while, neither of you scrolls to look at a different house.
-///-
The day came before you knew it.
There’s movement everywhere.
Voices in the hallway, footsteps, doors opening and closing, and someone laughing too loudly down the corridor.
It all sounds distant, like you’re hearing it through water.
You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped so tightly in your lap your knuckles ache.
Your dress hangs nearby.
Everything is ready.
Everything is happening.
And your brain will not slow down.
You swallow, staring at the floor.
You’re getting married today.
To Natasha.
That part feels right. Steady. Certain in a way nothing else has ever been.
But layered underneath that certainty—
Something else.
Your heart starts to race again, and you press your palms harder together, as you can physically hold yourself in place.
Because, of course, your brain picked today.
Of all days.
To replay that email.
The donor profile.
The one you weren’t even expecting to find.
Anonymous, yes—but detailed enough. Similar features. Similar background. Even little things that made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t expect.
It had felt…right.
Too right.
Like a possibility you hadn’t let yourself fully imagine until it was suddenly right there in front of you.
A future.
A real one.
Kids that might look like her too and not only you.
You exhale shakily.
You haven’t told her.
You want to.
You’ve wanted to all week.
Every time she talks about the house.
The bedrooms.
The way her hand keeps finding your stomach like she’s already picturing something there.
Every time, the words sit right at the back of your throat and then disappear.
Because what if it’s too much?
What if it’s too soon?
What if you bring it up today and it shifts something? Adds pressure? Changes the moment?
Your chest tightens.
“Hey.”
You flinch slightly at the voice.
When you turn, you see Wanda leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed, expression softer than usual.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she says gently.
You let out a weak breath. “Can you not—”
“I’m not,” she interrupts, holding up her hands. “You’re just…broadcasting a little.”
“Great,” you mutter. “Love that for me.”
She steps into the room, quieter now, her tone shifting.
“You’re nervous.”
“Very.”
“Cold feet?”
You shake your head immediately. “No. God, no. Not about her.”
“I know,” Wanda says.
You hesitate.
“There’s just…something I haven’t told her yet.”
Wanda studies you for a second.
“You want to?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
You look down at your hands again.
“Because it feels big,” you admit. “And today is already big. And I don’t want to…overwhelm her. Or mess anything up.”
Wanda’s expression softens.
“You think telling her you’re thinking about a future with her is going to mess something up?” she asks quietly.
“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“It sounds like you.”
You huff out a small laugh despite yourself.
“I just—I found a donor,” you say, the words finally leaving your mouth. “Like…a really good one. It just—it made it feel real, you know? And I want that with her, I just don’t know if today is—”
“Hey,” Wanda cuts in gently.
You look up.
“You don’t have to decide your entire future before you walk down that aisle,” she says. “You just have to show up. The rest? You figure out together.”
You let that sit for a second.
It helps.
A little.
“…So I shouldn’t tell her?” you ask.
“I didn’t say that,” Wanda replies. “I said you don’t have to do it right now if it’s making you spiral.”
You nod slowly.
That feels reasonable.
“You know her,” Wanda adds softly. “Better than anyone. When it feels right, you’ll know.”
You take a breath.
Then another.
Your shoulders loosen just a fraction.
“Okay,” you murmur.
“Okay.”
Wanda gives you a small, reassuring smile before heading back toward the door.
“And for what it’s worth,” she adds, glancing back, “she’s just as nervous as you are.”
You blink. “Natasha? Nervous?”
Wanda just smirks slightly. “Terrified.”
That actually makes you laugh.
“Good,” you say. “That’s comforting.”
“It should be.”
She disappears down the hall.
You sit there for a moment longer.
Then you look at your dress.
At your hands.
At the life waiting just on the other side of today.
The nerves are still there.
The question still lingers.
But beneath all of it—
There’s something steady.
You’re not doing this alone.
And you don’t have to have every answer yet.
You stand slowly, exhaling as you smooth your hands down your legs.
“One step at a time,” you murmur to yourself.
-///-
You’re running on fumes.
Not the romantic kind.
The dangerous kind.
You haven’t eaten. Not really. Every time you tried, someone pulled you away—photos, speeches, hugs, “just one quick thing” that turned into ten.
And every single time you sat down—
“—KISS! KISS! KISS!”
You did. Of course you did.
And every time you came back?
Your plate was gone.
At this point, you’re pretty sure you’ve had three bites of something, maybe a piece of bread, and about…far too much champagne.
The room is loud. Bright. Spinning just a little at the edges.
You’re smiling—but it’s getting harder to keep it steady.
Natasha is…worse.
Not drunk, exactly—but irritated in that very specific, very controlled way that means she’s about three interruptions away from snapping.
Someone had just pulled her away again, and you’d watched her jaw tighten as she nodded politely and followed.
Now she’s back.
Finally.
And when she finds you, her hand immediately goes to your waist, pulling you close like she’s making up for lost time.
“You okay?” she murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.
You shake your head a little, pressing into her. “I’m starving.”
Her grip tightens. “I noticed.”
“I tried to eat,” you mumble. “But every time I sit down, I get kidnapped.”
“I’m aware.”
There’s an edge to her voice.
You glance up at her. “You’re mad.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re mad.”
“I’m—” she exhales slowly “—a little frustrated.”
“That’s a scary version of mad.”
She huffs, but her hand softens against your side, her thumb brushing gently like she’s grounding herself through you.
“I just want five minutes with my wife,” she mutters.
That word.
Even now, it hits.
“My wife,” you echo softly.
Her eyes flick to yours.
“Yeah,” she says.
And then—
The music changes.
The crowd shifts, noise dimming as someone announces the dance.
There’s a ripple through the room—people moving back, forming space.
And for the first time all day—
No one interrupts.
Natasha looks at you.
“Come on,” she murmurs.
You nod.
She leads you to the centre of the floor, her hand never leaving yours.
And then—
It’s quiet.
Not completely.
But enough.
Enough that it feels like the world just… fades out around you.
Her hand settles at your waist.
Yours finds her shoulder.
And you start to move.
Slow.
Easy.
Close.
You exhale, your forehead drifting toward hers almost immediately. “Finally.”
“Finally,” she agrees.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
You just sway together, your body relaxing into hers, the tension of the day slowly unravelling.
Her thumb traces slow patterns against your side again.
Familiar.
Steady.
Yours.
“I missed you,” you murmur.
“I was right there.”
“Not like this.”
Her hold tightens just slightly. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t like people taking you away,” she admits.
You huff softly. “I didn’t like it either.”
“Good.”
You smile a little against her. “Possessive.”
“Accurate.”
You laugh quietly, but it fades into something softer as you settle more fully into her.
This.
This is what you needed.
Just her.
Just a moment.
Your fingers tighten slightly against her shoulder.
“…Hey,” you murmur.
“Mm?”
You hesitate.
The thought from earlier creeps back in.
The one you pushed aside.
But now—here, like this—it doesn’t feel as overwhelming.
Just…important.
“I wanted to tell you something,” you say quietly.
She doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t tense.
Just listens.
“Okay.”
You swallow.
“I found…a donor.”
Her movement stills for just a fraction of a second.
Not pulling away.
Just…listening harder.
You rush a little now, words soft but quick.
“I wasn’t planning to. It just kind of happened, and I saw the profile and—it just—it felt right. Like, really right. And I didn’t want to bring it up before today because I didn’t want to overwhelm you or make it—like—a big thing, but I just—”
“Hey,” she murmurs gently.
You stop.
Look up at her.
Her expression isn’t tense.
Or upset.
Just…focused.
Warm.
“You found someone you like?” she asks.
You nod, a little nervous now. “Yeah.”
A beat.
Then—
“Okay.”
You blink.
“…Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s it?”
She huffs a small, almost amused breath. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know, like—a reaction?”
“You’re talking about a future with me,” she says simply. “That’s not a problem.”
Your chest tightens, but in a good way this time.
“I just—I thought maybe it was too soon.”
“We’ve been planning bedrooms,” she points out.
“…That’s fair.”
Her thumb brushes your side again.
“You don’t have to figure all of it out today,” she adds. “We’ll look at it together.”
Together.
That word settles everything.
You nod, your forehead resting against hers again. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
There’s a small pause.
Then—
A loud, booming voice cuts through the moment.
“YOU TWO!”
You both flinch slightly.
Thor appears at the edge of the dance floor like an event all by himself, holding—
Shots.
Multiple.
“I HAVE BROUGHT CELEBRATORY DRINKS!”
Natasha closes her eyes briefly. “…Of course he has.”
You let out a soft laugh. “We’re doomed.”
Thor strides over, beaming, completely ignoring the fact that this is supposed to be a quiet, romantic moment.
“FOR THE NEWLYWEDS!” he declares, handing each of you a glass.
You take it.
Of course you do.
Natasha eyes it.
Then you.
Then the glass.
“…We haven’t eaten,” she mutters.
“Details,” you whisper.
She exhales.
Then takes it anyway.
“Fine.”
Thor grins like he’s just won something.
“TO LOVE!” he booms.
You clink your glasses together—yours with Natasha’s, then both with his.
“To love,” you echo.
And then you drink.
Immediately—
Regret.
You cough slightly, eyes widening. “Oh my god—”
Natasha winces, shaking her head. “That was a mistake.”
Thor just laughs, delighted.
“ANOTHER?”
“Absolutely not,” Natasha says instantly.
You, however, are already laughing, leaning into her again, a little dizzier now but smiling.
“Okay,” you murmur, breathless. “Maybe now we really need food.”
She steadies you, one hand firm at your waist.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m stealing you for that.”
“Please do.”
Her forehead rests against yours again, just for a second, grounding the moment before everything inevitably gets loud again.
“We’ll figure everything else out,” she murmurs.
You nod, smiling softly.
“Together,” you say.
“Together.”
-///-
By the time you make it to the kitchen of the venue, you are done.
Not elegantly overwhelmed.
Not softly emotional.
No—fully, completely, dramatically done.
“This is ridiculous,” you say, pushing the door open harder than necessary.
Natasha is right behind you, equally tense, equally fed up. “I told them we needed food.”
“I tried to eat." You spin around, hands flying. “I sat down three times—three—and every time someone dragged me away!”
“I noticed.”
“And now—now—” you gesture wildly at the counters.
Empty.
Completely, offensively empty.
No trays. No plates. Not even crumbs.
“…they took everything,” you say, your voice going dangerously quiet.
Natasha steps further into the room, scanning it like maybe food will magically appear if she looks hard enough.
“It seems that way.”
There’s a pause.
Then—
You grab a glass off the counter.
Natasha turns just in time to see—
“Hey—”
SMASH.
The sound is sharp, echoing through the kitchen as the glass hits the floor and shatters.
You stand there, breathing a little too fast, staring down at the pieces.
“…okay,” you say after a second. “That helped. A little.”
Natasha exhales slowly.
Then, very calmly—
“I’m not even going to pretend to be mad about that.”
You look up at her, a little wild-eyed.
“I’m hungry.”
“I know.”
“I might actually die.”
“You’re not going to die.”
“I could.”
“You won’t.”
She reaches for you, hands settling on your arms, grounding you just enough to pull you back from full meltdown territory.
“Hey,” she murmurs. “We’ll fix it.”
“How?” you demand. “Conjure food? Steal it? Fight someone?”
“…all viable options.”
You huff, somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
Then Natasha’s attention shifts.
To the side.
To a champagne bucket you hadn’t even noticed.
Inside—melting ice.
And strawberries.
Her eyes narrow slightly.
“…hold on.”
Before you can question it, she leans over, plucks one out, and pops it into her mouth.
You blink.
“…Natasha.”
She chews.
Swallows.
Then immediately grabs another.
“Are you—are you eating garnish?”
“It’s fruit.”
“It’s drunk fruit.”
She pauses mid-reach.
“…that explains a lot.”
You stare at her.
She eats another anyway.
“Okay, no, stop—stop eating the champagne strawberries,” you say, trying and failing to sound authoritative.
She points at you with the next one. “You smashed a glass.”
“That was emotional.”
“This is survival.”
You open your mouth to argue—
Then close it.
“…okay, fair.”
She eats another.
And another.
By the fourth, you’re narrowing your eyes.
“You’re getting more drunk.”
“I’m already drunk.”
“You’re getting more drunk.”
She smiles—just a little too confidently.
“I’m fine.”
You sigh.
“…we need real food.”
She nods immediately. “Agreed.”
A beat.
Then—
“Let’s leave.”
You blink. “Leave leave?”
“Yes.”
“In our wedding dresses?”
“Yes.”
“…okay.”
-///-
The taxi driver does not ask questions.
Which is probably for the best.
You’re half-laughing, half-complaining in the backseat, still riding the wave of hunger and alcohol, while Natasha has one arm firmly around you like she’s not letting you disappear again.
“I can’t believe they took all the food,” you mumble.
“I’m still upset about it.”
“I smashed a glass.”
“I know.”
‘’You didn’t stop me.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
You snort.
The line is painfully slow.
You and Natasha stand at the counter of Burger King, still in your wedding clothes, still slightly swaying from too much champagne and not nearly enough food.
Natasha is trying so hard to be patient.
You can tell by the way her jaw keeps tightening every time someone ahead of you asks another question.
“…and fries,” she says flatly, finishing the order. “A lot of fries.”
You lean into her side, nodding like this is a very serious, collaborative decision. “Emotionally important fries.”
The cashier blinks. “…okay.”
You shuffle off to the side to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
You stare at the counter like it’s personally responsible for your suffering.
“…this is cruel,” you mutter.
Natasha crosses her arms. “It’s inefficient.”
“I’m so thirsty.”
“We ordered drinks.”
“I need them now.”
“You can survive two minutes.”
“I cannot.”
She glances over at you. “You absolutely can.”
You squint at her.
Then—
You slip away.
Not dramatically.
Not announced.
Just…gone.
Natasha doesn’t notice at first.
She’s too busy watching the kitchen like she might will the food into existence through sheer irritation.
Behind the counter, things are moving slowly. Someone fumbles an order. Another employee calls for help.
Time stretches.
“Ma’am, can you handle your wife?”
Natasha blinks.
Turns slightly. “Excuse me?”
The employee gestures vaguely past her. “Your wife—she’s—uh—”
Natasha follows the gesture.
And then she sees you.
At the drink dispenser.
Not with a cup.
No.
You’ve leaned down, pressing the lever with your hand, drinking straight from the stream of soda as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
Completely unbothered.
Completely committed.
There’s a beat.
Natasha just… looks at you.
All the irritation.
All the tension from the night.
It dissolves instantly.
Replaced by something softer. Warmer. A little incredulous, a lot fond.
A.N: an unrealistic ending to a story that’s true for many. This one I’ve been meaning to write for a while; it felt like a hug 🫂
You don’t like loud classrooms.
They make your chest feel tight, like the air is too thick to breathe properly.
The other kids don’t seem to notice the chatter, the scraping chairs, or the laughter that comes too easily.
You sit at your desk near the window, fingers curled around the edge, eyes fixed on the trees outside.
It’s easier that way.
“Y/N?”
Your shoulders tense.
You know that voice.
Soft.
Careful.
Like it doesn’t want to scare you.
You turn your head just a little. Your teacher, Ms. Maximoff, is kneeling beside your desk now.
Her red hair falls forward slightly as she tilts her head, studying you with gentle concern.
“You’ve been awfully quiet today,” she says. “Is everything okay?”
You nod immediately.
Her expression doesn’t change much, but something in her eyes softens even more, like she doesn’t believe you, but she won’t push. Not yet, at least.
“That’s alright,” she murmurs. “If you ever want to talk about anything, I’m here.”
You look back at the window, not wanting to continue the conversation.
Wanda notices patterns. It’s something she’s always been good at. Like, small shifts, quiet changes, the things other people overlook.
It’s part of what makes her such a good teacher.
And you… You don’t fit.
Not in the way the other children do. You don’t laugh loudly. You don’t raise your hand. You flinch when someone moves too fast near you. You freeze when voices get too sharp.
And sometimes—this is what unsettles her the most—you look tired.
Not sleepy.
Tired.
That deep, bone-heavy kind of tired no child should carry.
She tries again a few days later.
“Y/N,” she says gently after class, when the other students have left.
You pause at the door, your small backpack hanging off one shoulder.
“Can you stay for a moment?”
You hesitate.
Then nod.
You step closer, but you don’t meet her eyes.
Wanda keeps her voice soft. “I just wanted to check in. I’ve noticed you’ve been a little… quiet lately.”
Silence.
Your fingers tighten around your sleeve.
“You know,” she continues, “sometimes when something is bothering us, it can help to talk about it. Even a little.”
You shake your head.
Still not looking at her.
“I’m okay,” you whisper.
The words sound practiced.
Rehearsed.
Wanda feels her chest tighten.
“Alright,” she says, just as gently. “You can go.”
You leave quickly.
Too quickly.
-///-
That night, Wanda doesn’t stop thinking about you.
Her wife, Natasha, notices.
She always does, too.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Natasha says from the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug in her hand.
Wanda looks up from the couch. “What thing?”
“The ‘I’m worried but trying not to say it out loud’ thing.”
Wanda exhales softly, rubbing her hands together. “There’s a student in my class.”
Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Only one?”
Wanda almost smiles, patting the seat next to her.
“She’s… different. Quiet. Withdrawn. But it’s more than that.” She hesitates, meeting Natasha’s eyes as she moves towards the couch. “She flinches. A lot. And she looks… exhausted.”
She sits down next to Wanda, knees touching her thigh as she tucks her legs underneath herself.
“How old?”
“Six.”
Natasha sets her mug down.
“Has she said anything?”
Wanda shakes her head. “Every time I ask, she shuts down. It’s like she’s… afraid of saying the wrong thing.”
That’s what does it.
Natasha straightens slightly, something cold and precise settling behind her eyes.
“Tomorrow,” she says, “I’m coming with you.”
Wanda blinks. “Nat—”
"Wands, I work in children's welfare. What you said is reason enough for me to look into it,” Natasha says calmly. “And if something’s wrong…” She trails off, but she doesn’t need to finish.
Wanda nods.
She trusts her.
Always has.
-///-
The next day, you notice her immediately.
She doesn’t belong in a classroom.
Not like Ms. Maximoff does.
This woman is… different.
She stands near the doorway at first, speaking quietly with your teacher.
She’s dressed simply, but there’s something about the way she holds herself, straight, alert, like she’s always watching.
Her eyes scan the room.
And then they land on you.
You look away quickly.
But it’s too late.
She’s already noticed.
Natasha takes her time.
She doesn’t approach you right away.
Instead, she observes.
The way you sit too stiff in your chair. The way your gaze flickers toward the door every few minutes. The way you hesitate before answering even the simplest question.
And then—
A boy runs past your desk too fast, and a chair scrapes loudly.
You flinch.
Not a small reaction.
Not subtle.
A full-body recoil, like you were expecting something worse.
Natasha’s jaw tightens.
Yeah.
Something’s wrong.
Later, during lunch break, Wanda sits beside you on the bench.
Natasha lingers a few steps away, pretending to check something on her phone.
“You remember my wife, Ms. Romanoff?” Wanda asks gently.
You nod.
“She works with children, too,” Wanda continues. “She just wants to make sure everyone is safe and happy.”
Safe.
The word makes your stomach twist.
Natasha steps closer, crouching down so she’s at your level.
Her voice is calm and steady.
“Hi, Y/N. I’m Natasha.”
You don’t answer.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”
You glance at her.
Just for a second.
Her eyes are different from everyone else’s.
They’re not soft like Wanda’s.
But they’re not harsh either.
They’re… certain.
As if she already knows something.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
You hesitate.
Then shrug slightly.
It’s not quite a yes.
But it’s not a no.
Natasha nods once, like that’s enough.
“Do you feel safe at home?”
Your heart stops.
The world goes very, very quiet.
You stare at the ground.
You don’t respond.
You can’t.
Because if you say the wrong thing—
If you say anything—
Your fingers curl tightly into your sleeves.
Natasha watches the silence stretch.
The way your shoulders tense.
The way your breathing changes.
And that’s all she needs.
She doesn’t ask again.
Instead, her voice softens—just slightly.
“You’re not in trouble,” she says. “And whatever is going on… it’s not your fault.”
Your throat tightens.
You blink hard.
Still, you say nothing.
But Natasha doesn’t push.
She stands slowly, exchanging a look with Wanda.
A silent understanding passes between them.
This isn’t nothing.
This is something.
And they’re not going to ignore it.
-///-
That afternoon, as you sit by the window again, the classroom feels a little different.
Not louder.
Not quieter.
Just… different.
Because now, someone has seen you.
Even if you didn’t say a word.
And for the first time in a long while, you’re not completely invisible anymore.
The man introduces himself as Steve.
He doesn’t stand over you like most adults do when they want something. Instead, he pulls a chair out slowly and turns it so he’s sitting across from you—not too close, not too far.
Just enough that you know he’s there, but not enough to make you feel trapped.
“Hi,” he says, offering a small, careful smile. “I’m Steve.”
You don’t answer.
You keep your eyes on the desk, tracing a faint scratch in the wood with your fingertip. You’ve already counted it before—three fingers long, slightly curved—but counting it again feels easier than looking up.
“That’s okay,” Steve says gently, like he expected the silence. “You don’t have to say anything right away.”
The room is quiet. Too quiet.
Outside the classroom, you can hear the distant noise of other students—chairs moving, someone laughing, a teacher calling out instructions. It feels far away. Like it belongs to a different world.
“I heard you like sitting by the window,” Steve continues after a moment.
Your finger stills.
He notices things.
You don’t like that.
“It’s a good spot,” he adds. “Lots of light. And you can see outside.”
You don’t respond.
But you don’t move away either.
Steve shifts slightly in his chair, resting his forearms on his knees. He doesn’t take out a notebook. Doesn’t write anything down.
He just… sits.
“I work with kids sometimes,” he says. “Mostly I just make sure they’re okay.”
Okay.
You swallow.
“I talk to teachers. Sometimes parents. Sometimes kids, if they want to.” He pauses. “But only if they want to.”
Silence stretches again.
Your shoulders feel tight.
Your chest feels tight.
“Do you feel safe at home?”
There it is.
The question.
It drops into the room like something heavy.
Your heart starts beating faster. You can feel it in your throat, in your ears, and in your fingertips.
You nod.
Too fast.
Too automatic.
Steve doesn’t react right away.
He just watches you.
Not in a scary way.
Not like he’s angry.
But like he’s… thinking.
Like he’s trying to understand something you didn’t say.
“Okay,” he says finally.
That’s it.
No follow-up.
No pressure.
But somehow that makes it worse.
-///-
He comes to your house two days later.
You know it’s him before anyone says his name.
There’s something about the knock, firm but not aggressive.
Steady.
Your stomach twists so hard it almost hurts.
“Stay in your room,” your parent says sharply, already moving toward the door.
You don’t argue.
You never argue.
You close your door quietly and sit on the floor, your back pressed against the side of your bed. It feels safer down here. Smaller. Like, if you make yourself small enough, you won’t be noticed.
Voices drift through the house.
Muffled at first.
Then clearer.
“…just a routine check…”
“…she’s a quiet child…”
“…always been sensitive…”
You pull your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them, pressing your face down.
You try to make yourself even smaller.
“…we would never…”
“…of course, we understand your concern…”
Their voices sound normal.
You know that tone.
You’ve heard it before.
It’s the voice they use for other people.
Not for you.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
If you don’t move, if you don’t make a sound, maybe he won’t come up here.
Maybe he’ll just leave.
Maybe everything will stay the same.
You don’t know if that’s what you want.
But it’s what you’re used to.
After a while, the voices fade.
The door opens.
Closes.
Footsteps.
Silence.
He’s gone.
Nothing changes.
At first.
Then everything does.
You don’t go to school the next day.
Or the day after that.
At first, you think you’re sick without knowing you were.
Or maybe in trouble.
You don’t ask.
You’ve learned not to ask.
“There’s no need,” your parent says when you linger near the door on the third morning, your backpack hanging loosely from your shoulder. “You’ll stay home for a while.”
“For how long?” you whisper.
They look at you.
Just look.
Your throat closes.
“…okay,” you say quickly.
Your backpack stays by the door.
You go back to your room.
-///-
Days blur together.
You lose track of time.
Morning feels like evening. Evening feels like nothing.
The window doesn’t help anymore.
You stop looking outside.
There’s no point.
No one is coming.
-///-
Wanda notices on the first day.
The empty chair.
Your chair.
She pauses in the middle of attendance, her eyes lingering just a second longer than they should.
“Y/N?” she calls out automatically.
Silence answers.
A student shifts in their seat.
“She’s not here,” someone says.
Wanda nods slowly, marking it down.
Absent.
It happens.
Kids get sick.
But something about it doesn’t sit right.
On the second day, she asks the office.
“No call or note,” they tell her.
Her concern sharpens.
On the third day, she calls.
No answer.
By the fourth day, she’s pacing.
“You’re wearing a path into the floor,” Natasha says from the kitchen, watching her with quiet focus.
Wanda doesn’t stop. “She hasn’t been in school all week.”
Natasha sets her mug down. “Did the office hear anything?”
“No. No call. No email. Nothing.” Wanda runs a hand through her hair, frustration and worry tangled together. “That’s not normal.”
“No,” Natasha agrees. “It’s not.”
Wanda turns to her. “What if something happened?”
Natasha doesn’t answer right away.
Because they’re both thinking the same thing.
“What if we missed something?” Wanda whispers.
Natasha’s gaze softens slightly. “You didn’t miss anything.”
“But she wouldn’t talk to me,” Wanda says, her voice tightening. “She wouldn’t talk to Steve either, and now she’s just—gone.”
Natasha straightens. “Then we go find her.”
Wanda blinks. “Nat—”
“I mean it,” Natasha says. “This doesn’t feel right. Not after what we saw.”
Wanda hesitates.
Then nods.
“I’m going there,” she says.
Natasha doesn’t argue.
“I’m coming with you.”
The house looks normal.
That’s the first thing Wanda notices, and it makes something deep in her chest twist uncomfortably.
The curtains are neat. The garden is trimmed. The front step is clean.
Everything looks… fine.
Too fine.
“She lives here,” Wanda says quietly.
Natasha stands beside her, eyes already scanning windows, corners, and small details most people would miss.
“Okay,” she replies.
Wanda steps forward and knocks.
The sound echoes too loudly in the still air.
They wait.
Nothing.
Wanda knocks again, harder this time. “Y/N? It’s Ms. Maximoff.”
Hi! Can I request a Wanda x masc!female reader where Wanda owns a bookstore and reader is the masc lesbian always loitering in her store. I would love for it to give TOTAL grumpy x sunshine or like suave x nervous wreck energy (I think that’s a thing, but I’m probably not explaining it right lol) thank you! 🧡
you got me (head over heels for you)
˚‧ ɞwanda maximoff x masc lesbian!reader
now playing: ꒰you got me // the aces꒱
˚‧ ɞ𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Wanda isn’t the type to get crushes. But for attractive and charming masc lesbians who loiter in her bookstore, she might just make an exception
˚‧ ɞ𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: FLUFF, MAJOR grumpy x sunshine vibes, reader is a masc lesbian, gay panic, a pietro cameo, wanda not knowing how to flirt back, YEARNING, 2.8k words
˚‧ ɞ𝐚/𝐧: FINALLY managed to write something after nearly three weeks of writers block 🫠 i don’t know quite if my block is cured yet, but managed to get some wanda fluff out of it, so i can’t be that mad. thank you for this request and i hope you enjoy! <3
𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Wanda loved her bookstore the same way most people loved their pets: a living thing with a beating heart and feelings that Wanda would protect with her life and maybe even die for. Maybe that sounded dramatic, but she didn’t care.
Wanda loved everything about her bookstore, from the uneven wood floors that creaked in the same places everyday, to the one leaky window that always seemed to drip when it rained no matter how often she got the roof repaired. She loved how the smell of espresso always drifted in from the tiny cafè corner that she’d fought tooth and nail to include when she bought the place two years ago.
Most of all, Wanda loved the people her bookstore attracted.
Her bookstore sat tucked between a vintage record shop and a plant store, and the plaza was just off a college campus. Which meant that Wanda spent most days surrounded by artsy college students with obscure majors and even more obscure fashion choices. Wanda’s seen it all: patchwork sweaters in the middle of July, chunky boots with tiny silver charms tied to the laces, and rings. They all loved oodles and oodles of rings. Wanda always felt like an outlier with her basic outfits, which typically consisted plain long sleeves and a skirt with tights every day.
And yet somehow, everyone was always so painfully polite. Everyone always cleaned up after themselves, they’d tell Wanda “thank you so much” at the end of their transactions. And the tip jar at the cafè counter was always flooded with $1 and $5 dollar bills.
The bookstore has become a strange little haven for people who lingered. Students typing away at essays in the corner, couples sharing headphones in the poetry aisle, someone inevitably curled into the armchair near the window pretending to read whilst actually sneaking a nap in. (Wanda totally got it. Though she’d never enrolled, she could imagine college was exhausting)
But there was one returning customer who was the biggest question mark to Wanda. And when the bell above the door chimes, yanking Wanda from her thoughts, her eyes lift from the register to see that very question mark walking through the door. You.
Something in Wanda’s chest betrayed her instantly, a familiar little flutter she absolutely refused to examine too closely. You stood in the doorway wearing a dark bomber jacket over a white tank top, rings glittering beneath the afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows. Your hair looked a little messy, purposefully wind-tossed, and a pair of sunglasses the same color as your jacket are tucked into the collar of your tank top.
You glance up the moment you step inside, smiling the second your eyes lock onto Wanda. It wasn’t even a big smile. Just a small tug at the corner of your mouth, but it was debilitating enough that Wanda immediately looked back down at the open book in front of her like she hadn’t noticed it, or you, at all.
Of course Wanda made it a point to greet every customer who walked through the doors, a rehearsed chirp of, “Hi, welcome in!” ready on her lips. But it’s like you were the one anomaly. Every time she tried to greet you, she’d get tongue-tied, those three stupid words suddenly impossible to say.
Wanda follows you with her eyes as you step into the cafè, and she also notes how the barista Sammy blushes immediately the second you’re at the counter. Wanda supposed you just had that effect on people.
“You know,” Pietro, Wanda’s twin brother who actually was enrolled at the university down the street and, much like the other college kids, also came into Wanda’s bookstore to loiter, suddenly appears to Wanda’s right. “One of these days, you’ll have to swallow your pride and just ask for her number,”
Wanda slammed the book shut in front of her. “I don’t want her number.”
“Right. And I don’t come in here just to eat all the chocolate chip cookies in the cafè,” her brother teases with a roll of his eyes.
Wanda’s brows furrow. “Yes you do, Pietro. You’ve said before that there’s crack in those cookies—“
“I know, Wanda. I was being sarcastic. Thank you for proving my point,” Pietro barks a laugh.
Wanda’s cheeks flare even hotter, making her curse her nervous system. “She’s just another customer,” she argues.
“Just another customer who comes in here five days a week at minimum,” Pietro counters. “Just another customer who buys exactly one coffee and then spends three hours wandering around and pretending not to stare at you,”
Wanda frowns down at the register. “She does not stare at me,” she mumbles. Though what she doesn’t say is that she can’t even count on her two hands just how many times she’s caught you staring. And she definitely can’t count how many times those stares had given her butterflies.
Before Pietro could tell Wanda she was full of shit, your cologne reached the checkout counter before you did, your boots sounding on the hardwood a moment later.
“Afternoon, Maximoff,” you greet Wanda warmly, then nod in Pietro’s direction. “What’s up, Pietro? That sub professor in German 2 today was weird, right?”
“Total weirdo,” Pietro agrees with a shake of his head. Wanda glares daggers at her twin, a look that says ‘you never told me you had a class with her!’ And Pietro smiles back with a shit-eating grin that replies, ‘You never asked’. Wanda continues to glare at Pietro’s retreating back as he walks away.
Wanda turns back to face you to find you already grinning at her. She ignores the way that her stomach flips in response. “It’s 2:30,” are the first brilliant words out of her mouth.
“That it is,” you say before bringing your coffee cup to your lips for a sip. “Aren’t you observant,”
Wanda huffs. “My point is that you typically come around noon,” she says. “What, find a better bookstore than mine?”
Your eyebrows lifted, followed by a slow grin that spreads across your face. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on me, Maximoff,”
Heat crawled up Wanda’s next instantly. “I am not keeping tabs on you!” she defended quickly. “I just happen to have memorized the comings and goings of my customers. Plus, I know how much you like to loiter, so you coming in at two-thirty only gives you six hours of loitering instead of eight…” she trails off, wincing. What the hell was she even talking about? Pietro snickers from somewhere inside the stockroom, definitely having heard his sister’s rambling, and Wanda makes a mental note to kill him with her bare hands later.
When Wanda risks a glance back in your direction, your small smirk has transformed into a full-blown grin. “So, you’re saying you missed me?” you ask, leaning your elbows on the counter.
“I am saying no such thing.”
“Mm,” you nodded thoughtfully, clearly not absorbing what Wanda just said. “Interesting.”
Wanda points an accusatory finger at you. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” you chuckle.
“That thing where you decide what I mean instead of listening to the words I’m actually saying.”
“Well, in my literature class, the professor is always going on and on about how we should pay attention to hidden meanings, so that’s what I’m doing here,”
Wanda folds her arms across her chest. “Fine, so what exactly is the hidden meaning here?” She challenges.
You don’t answer at first, but your smile goes a little soft, and Wanda’s heart starts to sound like a drum-line in her chest. The atmosphere dissipates completely when Pietro calls from the other room, telling Wanda that a customer on the phone wants to speak to her. When Wanda returns from the phone call however, you’re gone, and she’s completely blindsided by the visceral feeling of disappointment she feels. She also can’t shake the image of that soft smile she’d seen on your face.
***
The next day, you didn’t show up right around noon like you always did. Wanda told herself she’d only noticed your absence because the bookstore was unusually quiet; much less foot traffic than there usually was on a weekday afternoon. But then, you didn’t come in the next day either. Or the day after that.
Every tiny bell chime tugged Wanda’s attention upward before she could stop herself. But it was always just another cool-dressed college kid. Every laugh from outside made something hopeful spark in Wanda’s chest. But it was never you.
Wanda didn’t care. She couldn’t. So what if you stopped coming in? People drifted in and out of the bookstore all the time. College kids graduated. They got new routines, new cafès, new favorite haunts. Wanda had seen it happen before. It didn’t matter. That’s what she told herself anyway.
She threw herself into work instead. She reorganized the fantasy section that was constantly in a state of disarray, brought order back to the Funko Pop display, even vacuumed the stockroom, which was the only part of the bookstore that still had carpet for some reason. She did anything she could to avoid thinking about the fact that a certain girl with windswept hair and an affinity for clunky statement jewelry hadn’t shown her face in the past few days.
By the fifth consecutive day, Wanda almost asked Pietro if he’d seen you around campus. Which was humiliating, because that would require admitting she cared at all. And Pietro would never let her live it down. But Pietro had a way of knowing that Wanda was thinking about asking it anyway.
“If you’re worried about your girlfriend—“ Pietro starts.
“She is not my girlfriend,” Wanda interjected.
“Well, if you’re worried about the girl who’s not your girlfriend, but whom I know you’re attracted to,” Pietro amends his statement. “She’s not dead or anything. She’s been in German 2 every day this week. She just hasn’t been coming here,”
Wanda ignores the sting she feels. So you were safe, you just…what? Found a new bookstore? Didn’t want to see Wanda anymore?
Not that you were seeing her at all. Not that Wanda cared if she ever saw you again. Wanda fights to stay aloof, managing a cool nod in response to Pietro’s news. “Okay. Great,” she says. “I’m glad she is safe.”
Pietro looks at Wanda, an annoyingly sympathetic expression on his face. “I’m sorry, Wands. I don’t know why she’s stopped coming here. I guess I could ask her the next time I see her in class—“
“No.” Wanda snaps. “You will do no such thing, Pietro. But what you can do is stay out of my business, alright?”
Wanda doesn’t wait for Pietro to answer. Turning away from him, she grabs the stack of books off the register, and storms off to put them back on the shelf.
Wanda finds herself in the romance section, because of course she does. Her brain is on autopilot as she puts each book back where it goes. The last book in her hands catches her attention. It’s a sapphic romance, an art design of two girls holding hands on the cover. Wanda stares for a long time at the dark-haired girl with tattoos depicted on the left side, and suddenly she’s thinking of an attractive smile and a bomber jacket. Wanda clears her throat and shoves the book back on the shelf.
This was ridiculous. Wanda didn’t get crushes. She didn’t get weird and gooey about people. She was better off alone. Her stomach was wrong. Her heart was even more wrong. Wanda can’t flee the romance aisle fast enough.
***
It has now been two weeks since Wanda had last seen you in her bookstore. You would think that after fourteen full days, her body would stop reacting. That eventually she’d stop glancing up every time the bell above the door chimed. That the tiny spark of hope in her chest would finally die out instead of reigniting over and over and over again. But it never did. Every single time the door opened, Wanda’s stupid heart still leapt before her brain could catch up. And every time it wasn’t you, the feeling fizzled out just as quickly, leaving behind something hollow and embarrassing.
It was pathetic. Especially because Wanda still didn’t even know why you’d stopped coming. Maybe you found another cafè. Maybe you got bored of flirting with the awkward bookstore owner who could barely string a sentence together around you.
It had been a slow day from start to finish, and by the time closing rolled around, Wanda had already sent everyone else home. Now it was just Wanda alone behind the register, counting the tills and organizing receipts. The silence is broken by the bell chime of the door.
“We’re closing in ten minutes,” Wanda called automatically without looking up.
“That’s okay,” a familiar voice said warmly. “I only need one thing.”
Wanda’s heart did something fizzy in her chest. Her head snapped up so fast, she nearly gave herself whiplash. And there you were.
Rain droplets dappled the shoulders of your dark jacket and the ends of your hair were damp too like you narrowly escaped the downpour. You shoved your hands into the pockets of your jacket, and gave Wanda a cheeky smile. And just like that, two miserable weeks of pretending she didn’t care evaporated.
Something must’ve shown on Wanda’s face because your expression softened almost immediately. “There she is,” you murmur quietly.
Wanda realized, distantly, that she was staring. “You just disappeared,” she blurts before she can stop herself. Your eyebrows lifted, and Wanda wanted to throw herself directly into traffic. “I mean…” she backpedals. “You-you haven’t come in and Pietro said classes were still in session, so I thought maybe—“
Your expression melted into something so unbearably fond that it made Wanda’s stomach flip. “You noticed I was gone, huh?” you ask.
Wanda crosses her arms defensively even as heat rushes to her cheeks. “Well, you loiter in my store for eight hours a day. It would’ve been difficult not to notice your absence,”
You chuckle, stepping closer to the counter. “I missed you too, Maximoff,”
Up close, Wanda notices two things about you: that you have the prettiest eyes she’s ever seen…and that you look exhausted. Something tugs in her chest.
“So where were you?” she asks before she can stop herself. She’s hoping more than anything that you’re not about to mention a longtime girlfriend that you’ve been spending all your time with.
“My mom was in the hospital,” you admit softly, scratching at the back of your neck. “She’s okay now. It was just…a rough couple weeks.”
Oh. Instant guilt crashes into Wanda so hard it nearly makes her dizzy. All this time she’d been spiraling, thinking you’d just gotten bored of her when you’d been dealing with something so real. Was she really that much of drama queen?
Your smile suddenly turns sheepish. “I kept meaning to come by, but things got kinda crazy, both with my mom and with classes,”
Wanda suddenly doesn’t know what to do with herself or her nervous energy. You hadn’t been avoiding her. You’d wanted to see her all this time, you were just busy dealing with a sick mother and ruthless college classes. Wanda steps out from behind the counter to talk to you, and is struck immediately by the height difference. You were a good four inches taller, to the effect that Wanda had to tilt her head a bit to meet your eyes.
“I’m so sorry, that all sounds really stressful,” Wanda says. “But I’m glad your mom is okay now,”
“Yeah,” you smile. “Me too. Now, I can spend more time here figuring out a puzzle,”
Wanda frowns. “I don’t sell puzzles here,”
You chuckle. “I know, Maximoff. I meant you,”
Wanda’s heart jolts in her chest. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” you reply, shameless. “I know you’re a little prickly, but I think you’re cute. And I hope you know I’m not gonna stop flirting unless you tell me to back off,”
Wanda swallows hard. “I’m not…good at that, though,” she stammers. “At-at flirting back. I’m not good at it.”
“Yeah, I’ve gathered that,” you laugh. “But don’t worry. I think that’s cute too, and I can definitely work with that,”
“You can?” Wanda asks.
“Yeah,” you say. And then you reach for Wanda’s hand. Your skin is warm against hers, and the touch sends a spark up her entire arm. Wanda relaxes into it, letting her fingers lace with yours.
“Are you hungry at all?” you ask next.
“Starving, actually,” Wanda replies. And she was. All she’d had for sustenance today was a fruit smoothie around six a.m in the morning. And she could finally admit to herself that she’d been thinking of you all day, and that’s why her stomach had been in knots.
“Wanna get out of here? Grab a bite? Actually have a conversation now that you’ve admitted to digging me?” you tease.
Wanda tilts her head. “Did I admit that?” she asks coyly.
You smile down at her. “Well, you haven’t dropped my hand yet, so I think that counts for something,”
Wanda’s smile widens. “Hmm. Well, just let me lock up and I’m yours,”
You wait for Wanda as she locks up her bookstore. When she’s done, her hand finds yours and she lets you lead her to your car. Wanda can’t shake the dopey smile that plays on her lips, and all she can think about is how she’s just so damn glad she finally stopped pretending.
Nat with a gf (or partner if you don’t do fem!reader) who loves animals? Like she volunteers at shelters, she’s constantly taking home strays, and she’s always sending Nat videos of cute animals.
Paws and Effect
Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader
Genre: Fluff/Comedy
Warnings/tags: Female reader, Nickname (baby, used once)
Word Count: ≈800
Editor: @sweetcherries123
-.-
You sat cross-legged on the padded floor, surrounded by the shelter’s newest litter of kittens. Black and tuxedo cats, all tiny enough to fit in one arm.
They’d been found beside a bike path last week, wrapped in a fleece blanket inside a damp cardboard box. You still remembered the grey-haired woman who carried them in, frantic and near tears.
Since then, the shelter had been running on caffeine and twenty-four-hour kitten care—there were just so many of them.
You woke up this morning to your phone ringing violently. Your coworker, Grace, asked you to cover her shift, which was in less than 10 minutes. You were a people pleaser, so of course you said yes and rushed out of the house half-ready; your toothbrush sat untouched and your lunch box remained unpacked.
You tried to ignore the grumbling of your stomach as you nursed one of the kittens with a warm bottle of milk.
A knock on the door behind you pulled you out of your daze, “Who is it?” You called.
“It’s Benny, there's a woman at the front desk asking for you.” Benny was the newest member of the animal shelter crew.
“I’ll be out in a minute!” You waited until the bottle was empty before placing the black furball down beside his siblings. You watched him nuzzle into the tuxedo kitten beside him—the one you’d secretly named Tony. You weren’t supposed to name the kittens this early into their stay, but the poor little tuxedo cat was so sassy for a kitten in such a harsh situation, it reminded you of your girlfriend's coworker.
Eventually, you made your way to the lobby. There you were met with Natasha, leaning against the front desk with a mysterious brown and greasy bag clutched in her right hand.
She turned around as the door you just entered from clicked shut, “Hey, baby.” Natasha straightened and held the bag out toward you.
Your eyebrows scrunched, “What’s that for?”
She looked at you dumbfounded, “For you… to eat…”
“Why?”
Natasha rolled her eyes, “I know you forgot breakfast again.”
“No–” A grumble from your stomach interrupted you before you could continue.
She wholeheartedly laughed at you, “Just eat the damn sandwich before you pass out.”
-.-
Natasha should’ve known the silence was suspicious.
“Honey, I’m home!” Natasha greeted, walking through the front door.
Your stomach dropped. The kitten was quickly tucked into the closet before you threw yourself onto the bed, propping your head up casually against your hand.
Totally natural.
Nat opened the door right as you got comfortable, “What are you doing in here?”
“Just relaxing.” You squeaked.
She hummed, approaching the bed. Natasha kissed you sweetly, you could feel how much she missed you through it.
You leaned into her, grabbing her shoulder and sitting up to bring her closer. She settled into your lap comfortably. When she pulled back to whisper sweet nothings, she was interrupted by a quiet meow from the closet.
She groaned and threw her head back, “ ‘Just relaxing’ my ass.” Her eyes were filled with a mix of disappointment and annoyance, “I thought Roscoe was the last one.”
Roscoe, a brown tabby, had been your fourth cat and your supposedly “last” one.
“He is!” you insist, “I’m just fostering this one until he finds a home, I swear.”
You in fact weren’t just fostering him, 3 months later he was a permanent member of the family.
-.-
Natasha found your constant work updates endearing.
The Avengers did not.
Tony was briefing an urgent meeting, rambling on about how there couldn’t be any mistakes or “improv” during this one, but Natasha’s phone wouldn’t stop buzzing on the table.
“Sorry,” She said, taking it off the table as the whole team stared at her.
“No, I’m sorry, there must be something more important than twelve hostages. Would you care to share with the class?” Sarcasm dripped from Tony’s words.
Nat slowly shook her head and gestured for him to continue.
“So as I was saying–” Tony tried to go back to the time-sensitive topic but the buzzing, now coming from Nat’s pocket, accelerated and got louder. “Seriously, Romanoff. Just check your phone and tell them to shut up already.”
“I can’t.” She stated simply after glancing at who was messaging her.
Bruce groaned, “Why?”
Nat showed everyone your text thread, a series of videos and excited messages about the newest golden retriever that just came in.
Tony, along with the rest of the Avengers, softened his gaze at the clumsy puppy on her screen.
